Take No Farewell - Retail (67 page)

Consuela.

I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, then looked up at Hermione. ‘You know her plans?’

‘She told me this afternoon. She intends to leave for Brazil as soon as she’s free to do so, taking Jacinta with her. It’s quite the best thing for both of them, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

‘Had you perhaps hoped she would remain? There would have been a chance then for …’

‘For what?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Hermione pulled herself upright with a little gesture of annoyance at her own sentimentality. ‘I should tell you about Ivor Doak before I forget. The police have put him in lodgings in Hereford so that they can be sure of finding him if they need him to testify. He’s more comfortable than he’s been in years.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Do send him my greetings – and my thanks – when you see him. It’s him we’ve ultimately to thank for Consuela’s reprieve. He’s repaid the money we gave him many times over now, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do. I’ve thought about that a good deal in the past few days. Do you remember, Mr Staddon, how Victor warned you against lending him anything?’

‘Yes. He said I’d regret it. But he was wrong. Strangely enough, of all the things I did at Clouds Frome, that’s the one thing I never have regretted.’

‘And the one of which the greatest good has come. There’s a moral in that, surely.’

‘Indeed there is. A most compelling one. I only wish I’d heeded it sooner.’

I could not bear to remain in the flat after Hermione had left. My footsteps took me south, through the squares and crescents of Belgravia that made Cubitt his million. I came, as I knew I would, to Pimlico and the street where I lived before my marriage. I stood beneath a lamp-post opposite the entrance to the block, the same lamp-post where Consuela had stood one night in March thirteen years ago. I
lit
a cigarette and stared up at the window from which I had once stared down at her. The window was ajar. Inside, lights were blazing and jazz music playing on a gramophone. It wound slowly down till it had nearly stopped, then was rewound into energetic life. As I listened to it, I thought how oblivious the present occupant of the flat must be to all the segments of other people’s lives that had been led there before him. And then I thought how right he was to be so. Just as the past cannot be altered, so the present cannot be escaped. Consuela was looking to the future with a clear eye. Somehow, I would have to do the same.

I was welcomed back at the office the following morning with fragile good cheer. All were pleased that I was no longer suspected of murder and solicitous about how I had survived the ordeal. Reg, in particular, was full of apologies for not realizing the telegram was a forgery. Yet in Reg as much as in the others I also detected an air of disquiet. They had been besieged by reporters during the days following my arrest, but still knew little more than the newspapers had told them. Imry had done his best to re-assure them, but the effect of such publicity on the reputation of Renshaw & Staddon could only be guessed at. They did not blame me for what had happened, of course, but they were aware that it had rendered their futures less secure than they had previously seemed. Nor was there much I could do or say to bolster their confidence – or, if it came to the point, my own.

Windrush called to see me that afternoon and added his congratulations to everybody else’s. He explained the delicate state of Sir Henry’s negotiations with the Home Office regarding Consuela’s release, from which I gathered that the matter might drag on for some weeks. There could be no doubt what the conclusion would be, but how it was to be reached without undue loss of face in official circles was as yet uncertain. Windrush suspected that no decision would be taken until after the Home Secretary’s
anticipated
victory at the Burnley by-election, now only three days away.

Towards the end of our interview, Windrush mentioned, as casually as he could contrive, that Francisco Manchaca de Pombalho had insisted on taking responsibility for Consuela’s legal fees. It was assumed that I would permit him to do so, despite my earlier undertaking to pay them. The likelihood was that they would be awarded against the Crown once the basis on which Consuela was to be released had been settled, but, even if that did not happen, I sensed that nobody any longer wanted me to contribute. I raised no objection. I was not a member of the family, after all, hardly even a friend. Such generosity was unnecessary, almost unseemly. So it was that I took another step back towards the ranks of strangers.

My incipient estrangement from the affairs of the Caswell family was interrupted two days later by an unexpected telephone call. I had just returned to the office after lunch when Doris informed me that a Mr Caswell was on the line, wishing to speak to me. My initial incredulous reaction was that it was Mortimer. As soon as Doris put the call through, however, I realized my mistake.

‘Hello, Staddon. How’s tricks?’

‘Spencer? What are you—’

‘Released without a stain on my character. Well, no indelible ones, anyway. They were forced to admit they hadn’t sufficient evidence against me.’

‘But that’s not—’

‘Possible? ’Fraid it is. And here I am on the blower to prove it. But that’s not why I called. I wanted to thank you.’

‘To thank me? What the—’

‘I’m a rich man now, Staddon. Twice as rich as I expected to be. Thanks to the efforts of you and your chums, I won’t have to share Uncle Victor’s estate with an upstart valet. Gratifying, don’t you agree?’

I could not speak. Spencer’s face, as well as his voice,
seemed
close beside me, his eyes sparkling with glee, his mouth curving into a smile.

‘Cat got your tongue? Can’t say I’m surprised. People never take it kindly when I win. And I always do, you know. I win. And everybody else loses. Thanks again, Staddon.’

He rang off. Slowly, I put the telephone down and took several deep breaths, trying as I did so to force myself to believe that anger was as useless as resentment. Perhaps Spencer’s ownership of Clouds Frome would constitute a fitting judgement on its architect. Perhaps I should laugh at this crowning irony, not grind my teeth in pointless fury. Then the telephone rang again.

‘Mr Staddon, I have Chief Inspector Wright on the line for you.’

‘Put him through, Doris.’

There was a click, then Wright’s voice. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Staddon.’

‘You’ve called about Spencer Caswell, haven’t you, Inspector?’

‘Why yes, but … How did you know?’

‘He’s just ’phoned me.’

‘Has he? Impudent young … Well, perhaps that was only to be expected. He does like to crow.’

‘He said you’d admitted there was insufficient evidence to hold him.’

‘Quite true, I’m afraid, sir. I’d hoped he would disintegrate under questioning, but he’s too fly for that. As it is, all we have against him is Gleasure’s confession. And it’s a well-established principle of English law that nobody can be convicted solely on the uncorroborated testimony of an alleged accomplice.’

‘But he virtually admitted he was guilty over the telephone.’

‘Not good enough, sir. We need what we don’t have: eyewitnesses and hard evidence. We know he’s guilty, of course, but we can’t prove it.’

‘You realize what this means?’

‘That he’ll inherit the Caswell estate? Yes. Galling, isn’t it? But they do say money isn’t everything.’

Nor was it, I knew, even to Spencer. But victory was. And victory was what he had apparently secured; a more comprehensive one than I had ever anticipated.

Chapter Twenty-Five

TRUE TO WINDRUSH’S
prediction, it was on Friday 29 February – the day after the Burnley by-election – that he telephoned me to say an agreement had been reached between Sir Henry and the Home Office regarding Consuela’s release. He was to meet Sir Henry in his chambers at seven o’clock that evening to learn the details and I was welcome to join them. Even as I confirmed my attendance, I sensed that the occasion would herald not just the end of Consuela’s imprisonment but the end of my involvement in any aspect of her affairs.

The afternoon was a stormy one. By five o’clock it was nearly dark, with gale-thrown rain rattling at the windows. I had just told the staff they might leave early, and was reconciling myself to a lonely vigil till the time came to set off for the Middle Temple, when Chief Inspector Wright appeared at my office door. He was damp and windblown, but I had the impression this did not account for the absence of his customary smile.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

‘I’m sorry to say I have some more questions to put to you, Mr Staddon.’

‘Well, if I can help you assemble a case against Spencer—’

‘This has nothing to do with Spencer Caswell. Not directly, anyway.’ He sat down, looked at me for a moment, then said: ‘Thomas Malahide, sir. Jobbing carpenter and habitual criminal. Found shot dead at his lodgings in Rotherhithe on the ninth of January this year.’

‘Really? I …’

‘The man who sold Lizzie Thaxter’s last letter to Gleasure. Accomplice of Peter Thaxter in the Peto’s Paper Mill robbery. Employed, I believe, by your good self during the construction of Clouds Frome.’

‘Employed by the builder, Inspector, not by me.’

‘Even so, sir, you know who I mean.’ There was testiness in his voice now as well as formality.

‘Yes. I do.’ I also knew what he was about to say, but hoped I was wrong.

‘Shall we drop the pretence, then? Malahide’s murder ranked pretty low on our list of priorities until Gleasure revived our interest in it. I’ve spoken to Malahide’s daughter, Alice Ryan. She admits she wasn’t alone when she found her father’s body. The description she gave us of her companion reminded me quite forcefully of someone I know. You.’

‘I see.’

‘But I don’t, Mr Staddon. So, perhaps you could enlighten me. Why did you remove Malahide’s copy of Lizzie’s letter and persuade Alice Ryan to say nothing about you?’

‘Because the letter could have been used against Consuela at her trial. I know it was foolish, but—’

‘As I thought.’ For the first time, he smiled. ‘Well, that’s water under the bridge, I suppose.’

‘Yes. It is, isn’t it? I—’

‘But something else isn’t!’ Suddenly, he was stern again. ‘Alice Ryan thinks her father was killed because he’d just found out who the fourth accomplice in the Peto’s Paper Mill robbery was. I agree with her. I think somebody had just told him, just put a name to a face. Was that you, by any chance, Mr Staddon?’

‘Yes, Inspector, it was.’ Weariness with dissimulation of all kinds was upon me. I could probably have played a dead bat to Wright’s questions and got away with it, but there no longer seemed any point. Besides, I owed Turnbull nothing, least of all protection. ‘Malahide spotted the fourth man
while
visiting me at Luckham Place, my father-in-law’s house in Surrey, on New Year’s Eve. He was there to demand money from me for Lizzie’s letter. I met him two days later, in London, to conclude the transaction. That’s when he asked me who the man was he’d seen at Luckham Place. I saw no reason not to tell him. I didn’t know why he wanted the information. Even if I had, I’m not sure I’d have kept it from him.’

‘And the name?’

‘Major Turnbull.’

‘Your wife’s—’ Wright chuckled. ‘If it didn’t make so much sense, I might suspect you were simply being malicious, Mr Staddon.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘Yes. I rather think it is. According to Alice Ryan, her father always suspected there had been somebody behind Burridge in the gang, supplying money and information. So, it was Turnbull. And how did he know Peto’s printed Bank of England bill paper or that their security precautions were lax? Why, Victor Caswell told him, didn’t he? They were partners in crime in South America and they remained so in Herefordshire. Turnbull recruited Burridge, who recruited Malahide, who recruited Peter Thaxter. Those three took all the risks. Turnbull and Caswell merely took the profit. And, when they had amassed as much as they thought they safely could, they tipped off the authorities and wound up the operation. I checked, you see. It was an anonymous tip-off that put the Herefordshire police onto the gang. That’s why Peto’s brought forward their stock-taking. Those two must have been congratulating each other for years on the success of their venture. But, thanks to Gleasure, Victor Caswell was made to suffer for it in the end.’

‘And Turnbull?’

‘We shall enquire deeply into his affairs, Mr Staddon. We shall make life as uncomfortable for him as we can. But, with Caswell, Malahide and Burridge all dead, I fear it will come to nothing.’

‘Insufficient evidence?’

‘Exactly so. One of the great frustrations of a policeman’s life. First, Spencer Caswell. Now, Major Turnbull.’

‘Can nothing be done?’

‘Nothing. Unless one or both of them make a mistake.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘Then they will be living proof of the old saw, Mr Staddon. You can tell what the good Lord thinks of money by the people he gives it to.’

The ramifications of my discussion with Wright were still going through my mind when I reached Plowden Buildings shortly after seven o’clock, ill-prepared for what I was to find there. Sir Henry was seated at his desk, conversing amiably with three guests: Windrush, Francisco Manchaca de Pombalho and Arthur Quarton. Sir Henry must have seen me start at the sight of Quarton, for he beamed at me and said: ‘All will soon become clear, Mr Staddon. Now that you are here, we can proceed.’

I was introduced to Pombalho, who greeted me with wintry courtesy. He was all his brother had not been, but they obviously shared one thing: a disapproval of my role in Consuela’s past. Quarton’s smile and handshake were altogether warmer, yet they gave little away. Whether Sir Henry had invited him or he had come at his own initiative was not apparent.

‘To the purpose of our meeting then, gentlemen,’ said Sir Henry as we took our seats. ‘As you know, I have been locked in negotiations with the Home Office for some days regarding the lamentable delay in Mrs Caswell’s release. Whether the fact that the electors of Burnley have now pronounced on the Home Secretary’s suitability to represent them in Parliament is relevant or not I hesitate to surmise, but certain it is that today has seen a breakthrough in those negotiations. I have been resisting Sir John Anderson’s preference for a royal pardon as the solution, since, strictly speaking, this would merely waive punishment without
rescinding
the conviction. I have been pressing instead for the Attorney-General to reconsider his earlier decision to veto an appeal to the House of Lords. That, I am glad to say, is the route that has now been agreed upon. Their Lordships will hear Mrs Caswell’s appeal in the light of Gleasure’s confession next Wednesday, the fifth of March. The result is a foregone conclusion. Mrs Caswell’s conviction will be quashed.’